It had been an Indian summer, and Karin had felt impossibly hot. She’d been able to hear her mother’s laughter coming from the pool and had stumbled outside, hoping the fresh air would clear her head.
And then she had seen her mother topless in the pool and kissing another man.
Despite being appalled, Karin had felt this instant surge of protectiveness for her father, this anger at her mother, and this overwhelming dread that her father might find out.
And then she had seen him.
Had seen her esteemed, respected father fondling another woman’s breasts as he’d watched his wife. For Karin, it had felt as if the sky was falling, just a stark, absolute, confirmation of her family’s utter depravity.
‘Hey!’ She could still remember the actor’s low drawl in her ear, could still remember the sheer relief of her head on his chest as he had shielded her vision. ‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not!’ She had wanted to scream, had wanted to race over to her parents and drag her mother out of the pool by her hair. But she’d let him lead her away, let him take her upstairs, and only then had it dawned on her how drunk she was. Her legs hadn’t worked and her head had been spinning—but he hadn’t seemed to mind….
Karin couldn’t bear to think about what had happened next. Instead, as always, she did her best to look on the bright side. If there was any consolation to be had from the fallout of that appalling time, it was that Karin had, for once, asserted herself. Eight years older than her sister, she had been desperate to protect the nine-year-old Emily, and had demanded of her, for once guilt-laced, mother that Emily become a full-time border at the exclusive school. It hadn’t been a complete solution, of course. Emily had often wanted to bring her little friends home, and Karin had always come up with a solution—a holiday invitation from the Wallises was one every little girl craved. So there had been an Easter break in Rome, or the golden beaches of France for summer, or perhaps Christmas in Switzerland.
Life had just been one apparent party when you were a Wallis.
The press were quick to point out that only in the frozen mountains did Karin seem to come alive—printing a beaming photo of her as she’d launched herself off the top of a mountain.
And she had come alive. Away from London and the wreckage of her family, when it was just her, Emily and the crisp white mountains, for a little while she had been able to forget. There on the black runs temporary fear replaced constant fear and it felt marvellous.
It had been escape.
A dangerous escape, at times, but at least it had been escape.
Just as her night with Xante had been.
Xante did his level best not to think about her the next morning. Hauling himself out of bed, he showered, dressed and then went down for breakfast, locking the rose back in the display cabinet where it belonged.
He was ravenous, so he pondered the menu instead of her.
He chose pastries and coffee, because that was the Greek way, even though he wanted the full English breakfast.
And he flicked open the paper, fully intending to read about the trouble in the world—except there it was: their chaste kiss as he had said farewell to Karin captured by the press. It seemed ironic for Xante, that for all that he had achieved in his life—all the money that had been raised for charity last night, all the famous women he had dated and bedded—after a single brief kiss with Karin Wallis he was catapulted onto page two.
He did his level best not to think about her in the ensuing week. And perhaps he’d have managed it, had various members of the English rugby team not at various times enquired as to her whereabouts, telling him over and over how delightful and charming she was. Yes, he could have put her right out of his mind—if his PA hadn’t rung him to discuss a rather exclusive invitation that had been extended to himself and Miss Karin Wallis: réspondez s’il vous plait
Only without her, Xante was fast realising, he couldn’t.
Still, Xante knew exactly what he was doing. Though it came as no real surprise when on the following Friday Karin rang, the fact she had held out so long meant that there was just a dash of relief there too.
‘Rossi.’ His PA had already informed him who was on the line, but he let Karin introduce herself and then chatter nervously on for a moment.
‘Karin.’ He interrupted her attempt at small talk. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Well, I know you like memorabilia, and I’ve been going through my grandfather’s things, and—’
‘You’re selling the rest of his stuff?’ Xante asked incredulously, though he wasn’t really surprised.
‘I’m not selling it,’ Karin quickly broke in. ‘I wondered if you might be interested in an exchange. There are some beautiful things, valuable things. I just really want the rose. I’ve spoken with Matthew and, even if you were selling it, he’s not that keen on buying it back, and all our money’s tied up in trust. Without his consent…’ Xante rolled his eyes; her sob story he could well do without, but when her voice suddenly broke then he listened. ‘Xante, please. I really need it. The function co-ordinator at Twickenham just reminded me again that I should bring the jewel; how will it look if I tell them I haven’t got it?’
‘Like a rather poor effort from his family,’ Xante said.
‘Quite.’ She was crying in earnest now. ‘There are trophies, photos; there’s even the ball that won—’
‘I will pick you up at eleven,’ Xante broke in.
‘Pick me up?’
‘Karin, I have no intention of attending the car-boot sale you are holding.’ He examined the nails on his free hand. ‘And I have no intention of selling my rose. However, I understand your predicament, and I am not leaving for Greece till early Sunday now, so I would be delighted to accompany you. You would hardly expect me to just hand the rose over to you for the day?’
There was the longest pause, but Xante refused to fill it; his final offer was in.
‘I’ll come to the hotel.’ Her voice was strained as she attempted grace. ‘But we have to leave at ten-thirty. I have to be there by eleven.’
‘You can get there when you like, Karin,’ Xante answered coolly. ‘I am not available till then.’
He kept her waiting till ten-past.
Then he walked calmly into the foyer where she sat. Karin jumped like a coiled spring when finally he deigned to appear.
But if she was angry at his timing she didn’t say it.
She kissed him briefly on the cheek and thanked him politely as he handed her the rose. The sobbing woman he had spoken to on the phone yesterday had clearly left the building. Dressed in the palest blue suit, her thick blonde hair for once hanging straight and glossy, she wore a matching coat, the belt loosely tied at the back and her splendid legs accentuated with soft grey stilettos. She looked dressed more for a wedding than for the rugby, and was thoroughly together, mildly bored, even, as she replied in monosyllables to his attempt at chatter when they were in the car. If it had been anyone else, he’d have stopped the car and told her to get out.
It was his luxury vehicle they were arriving in, Xante felt like reminding her, his rose she was holding, his presence that saved her the shame of turning up to the function empty handed, and now she was practically ignoring him. Xante couldn’t stand the English obsession with old-versus-new money. Xante knew his worth and was proud of it, proud of his heritage, and proud too that—unlike this polished, groomed beauty who sat tense and rigid in the car beside him—he would never stoop to stealing. Despite a poor upbringing he had made it, without having everything fed to him on a silver spoon and, unlike Karin, he knew how to enjoy himself.
And there was plenty to enjoy. Mingling with guests, chatting about their mutual passion over a sumptuous luncheon, Xante fitted in well, especially with his prize trophy-date standing beside him. It was the esteemed Karin Wallis who couldn’t relax, who shuffled her food around her plate without actually taking more than a single bite. She was excruciatingly polite, of course, and technica
lly never put a well-shod foot wrong. But even as her grandfather’s and his team mates’ achievements were lauded, even as she took to the microphone, her smile was frozen. Her speech, though well executed, was so lacking in the passion Xante was sure was there beneath the surface.
Only at the end of her speech did she falter, and only then did Xante feel it was the real Karin Wallis speaking
‘My grandfather,’ she concluded in her prim little voice, ‘lived his life just as he played the sport he loved—with passion, flair and dignity. I am not going to distort his memory and say that he would be humbled by today’s celebration of his achievements—that was not my grandfather’s style. Instead he would have revelled in this day. He would, I know, have loved to be applauded one more time at the ground he called home.’
She returned to her seat to loud applause; applause, Xante realised, that was for her grandfather alone. For that fleeting second he felt he understood her, had glimpsed the pressure of living with and living up to the blaze of glory that surrounded the Wallis name. And when he took her hand and squeezed it, when he told her she had done well, he meant it.
‘Thank you.’
She removed her hand and stared fixedly ahead, and Xante held his tongue as another rugby legend took to the microphone.
‘Miss Wallis,’ an official discreetly spoke when the last of the speeches was over. ‘We’ll be moving down for the parade now.’
‘Parade?’ Xante frowned as Karin stood, and so too on instruction did he, and was led through the maze of corridors beneath the stands. Xante was somewhat bewildered but tried not to show it as they were lined up in order, with the elderly greats and their loved ones, or the families of those who were no longer living.
The tunnel was cold and windy. It was a blustery day in London, and gusts swept along the tunnel where they waited for Karin’s turn. To Xante she looked terribly alone.
‘Will Mr Rossi be walking out with you?’ an official checked, and he knew the answer before it came.
‘No. It will just be me.’
The line was moving; each England legend was being announced. Never had Xante felt more of a fool for keeping her waiting in the hotel lobby, and for not knowing just how big and how grand today was for her—and for even considering letting her come without the rose.
‘I didn’t realise how important today was.’ Xante cleared his throat.
‘Why else would I have called you?’ He could see the flash of tears in her eyes and chose not to take it personally, could see the trouble she was having holding it together as the line moved forward.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Xante said instead, which only confused her more.
Why the hell did he have to suddenly be nice? She knew she was being unfair to him, but it was the only way she could keep from folding. He had no idea what it had taken to ring him, to humiliate herself like that. She had sobbed to him on the phone, and she had never cried to anyone. Around Xante she’d developed the impulse control of a two-year-old. She was freezing; the new designer coat she couldn’t afford offered no barrier to the wind, and she felt sick at the thought of going out there, facing the riot of applause and wondering what the crowd would feel if only they knew the truth.
One by one they called the great men’s names out, and they or their loved ones stepped out as the crowd roared their approval. Black and white images of their glory days filled the large TV screens around the stadium, and then it was Karin’s turn.
As her grandfather was announced the crowd went wild, chanting his name, and Xante saw her hesitate. For a split second he could have sworn she was about to turn heel and run.
‘You’ll be fine.’ He pulled her into his coat, held her for a fraction of a second and kissed the top of her head. Like a father kissing a child on her first day at school, he sent her on her way, and for Xante it was like watching Jonah being swallowed by the whale as she walked out into the ravenous crowd. He had never seen anyone look more little or alone, and even though she was smiling, even though she was waving to the crowd, he knew she was bleeding inside.
What he didn’t get, though, was why it should bother him so.
‘Karin.’ The pre-match entertainment was long since over and they were seated in the stands. The game was underway and still she had barely spoken to him. ‘I know today is hard for you.’
‘You know, do you?’ she sneered. She had to be cruel to him, because otherwise she’d curl into his arms and weep. She had to hold it together for just a little while longer, because there were so many reasons why she couldn’t fall apart. ‘You could never know what today means.’
It had been a thrilling match, worthy of the legends they were honoring. England had roared to victory! But it had been the most appalling date, if you could have called it that. Xante had been merely a commodity, her ‘plus one’ in every way possible, but he had been too much of a gentleman to just walk. When the last hands had been shaken and she’d declined his offer to come back to the hotel, Xante had dismissed his driver and taken her home himself. As his car crunched on the gravel of her lovely stately home, Karin began to rummage in her bag. For a fleeing moment Xante thought she was maybe going to tip him, but she was only locating her keys.
‘Thank you.’ She gave him a crisp smile.
She stared up at the house, at the chink of light through the front-lounge curtains. She knew what lay behind them and she didn’t want to go in, just wanted to tell Xante to drive on, to just escape.
Xante watched her wrestle with the decision as to whether or not to ask him in, and wondered why she was having so much trouble over just a cup of coffee. She was staring ahead now, still not getting out, her perfect profile rigid, and even when he turned the engine off still she remained seated.
‘Are you going to ask me in?’
‘No.’
‘So why aren’t you getting out?’
‘You haven’t opened the door for me!’ It was the most stupid answer—snobby, superior and everything she didn’t really feel—except the words just spilled out.
‘Allow me,’ Xante said. Gentlemen did open doors for ladies, but he liked to do things his way, and anyway there was a point to prove. Leaning over, Xante un-clipped her belt for her and felt her recoil, pinning herself to the seat, but still she made no move to get out. He knew she wanted him, he could sense it, smell it, taste it, and he knew her head was fighting right now with every other throbbing cell in her body. So what was stopping her?
He leant further over her, flicking a switch so that the door clicked open. A gush of cool night air did nothing to reduce the heat between them. His hair was against her face, his firm body in contact with hers, as way too slowly he moved back. Karin held her breath and could almost feel the ground giving way beneath her; she felt this desire to fall, to just fling herself into the horizon, to just give in. He hadn’t returned to his seat; his face turned to hers, nothing but a breath separating them. ‘Good night, Karin,’ Xante said coolly, still holding her gaze. Karin was mired in conflict. The door was open and she could so easily leave; she wanted this horrible day to be over so that she could walk out of that door and never see him or his vulgar money again. But still she could not move from her seat.
‘Why do you fight it so, Karin?’
‘Fight what?’
‘This.’ His lips lightly pressed onto hers and, as much as Karin thrilled to his touch, still she refused to give into his kiss, refused to move as he continued to kiss her.
‘Why?’ Xante asked, pulling back just a touch, ‘Would you fight something so nice?’
He was kissing her again, only less gently now, his tongue parting her lips. It was nice, the soft, bruising contact infinitely nicer than anything she had experienced. She could taste whisky and passion—but more than that she tasted the escape his lips promised, lips that soothed and inflamed, that hardened on stirring. And as she kissed him back it was like tripping a switch; this flood of confined energy as his mouth devoured hers was pressing her into the se
at; his weight, his strength, was warmly received.
Xante had many kisses in his repertoire; like a skilled magician, they appeared with apparent ease yet were planned and executed to perfection. But not this one.
This was a kiss that even Xante was unfamiliar with. There was no trickery now, no master plan, no voice in his head, just the sweet, sweet sensation of her flesh beneath his.
And then, as her lips parted and his tongue slid inside and met hers, the contact was so shocking that he could feel her tremble. His arms that had been loosely by his sides pulled her into his magical circle, and though he wanted to deepen the kiss he held back, aware at some level that if he moved too fast, too soon, she would disappear for ever.
Only now Karin wanted to stay and wanted to kiss him for ever, because for the first time she forgot.
She was completely and utterly lost in his kiss, and it felt wonderful.
His hands were working down her arms now, as still he kissed her, his fingers stroking her aching nipples through her coat. She wanted them there, only she didn’t want them to slip inside, didn’t want him to feel the gnarl of the scar beneath. Like the house behind her, the exterior belied what lay within.
He was pressing hard against her and her hands were pulling him closer still, urgent for contact now, not kisses. His mouth was working down her neck as one hand cupped one aching breast, making her stomach curl inside. She felt his other hand wrestle with the buttons of her blouse, and for a second the need for his touch was so urgent, she forgot…forgot…It was heaven to feel his hand slip into her camisole, heaven to rest the weight of her tender breast in his warm palm, heaven till she remembered. Her hand clamped around his, stunned at her own body’s reaction, and she refused Xante any more access to her body. Beyond embarrassed, Karin pulled her face away; she could scarcely believe what had taken place.
‘Still fighting it?’ There was a glint of triumph in his eyes, a look that told her he knew.
‘There’s nothing to fight.’ She gave him a patronising smile, trying to kid them both it had been just a kiss—except it had been so much more. ‘I’d better go in. Thank you for your help today.’
Blackmailed Into the Greek Tycoon's Bed Page 5
